


All These Things That I've Done

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Series: is it true? [2]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: :')), M/M, based on that kerrang article you know the one, tried my best to make it realistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 03:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15899667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: "[...] Urie and Ross crack up as they slow-dance together through the heaving dressing room, belting out 'All These Things That I've Done' by fellow Las Vegas quartet The Killers as they glide through the crowd." - Kerrang! Magazine, Oct. 2006.Brendon has a song stuck in his head. He's gotta do something about it.





	All These Things That I've Done

**Author's Note:**

> someone asked me weeks ago whether I knew a good all these things that I've done fic, and I said I didn't. and well, here's one for you. hope you enjoy. 
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the song, by the way.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZTpLvsYYHw)

“They ever gonna stop?” Spencer mumbles, rubbing one of his eyes as a defeated make-up artist tries to apply some kind of white powder to his face for the umpteenth time. It’s barely an hour before the show, and everyone in the dressing room seems to think none of us are ready. Zack’s leaning against the doorframe, watching us with detached interest. He hasn’t gotten any more sleep than we have, but all he has to do tonight is make sure that no one passes out. That’s been going pretty well so far. 

 

“Probably not,” Jon answers, sliding on his brown jacket over the white shirt so similar to mine. Somewhere through the walls of the venue, a muffled chant escapes from the crowd, already amassed against the stage. I can picture them. The smiles, the bright eyes, the ones sporting our shirts and the ones already crying even though we're not even there yet. 

 

_Pa-nic!, Pa-nic!, Pa-nic!_

 

Jon looks at Spencer with a glimmer of childlike malice in his eyes. “Maybe you should go and tell them to shut the fuck up.” 

 

Fuck, they’re hyped tonight. I look at Ryan through the mirror; he’s busy tying a scarf around his waist, and I can’t help but wonder if he has sweat glands at all. Layers upon layers of clothing and he’s completely dry when he comes offstage. Maybe a fairy put a spell on him as a child. _This child will have the power of words and little sweat._

 

“I wish,” Spencer laughs, standing up from his chair. “But as good as dying asphyxiated by teenage girls sounds, it's not really the way I wanna go, y’know?” Jon snorts and Spencer looks at the makeup artist, pointing at his own face. “Are we done?” She nods quickly, already moving to clean up the makeup station, making room for Jon, who comes and sits in the chair in turn. I have a Killers song stuck in my head, the introduction playing in a loop, so I tap my fingers against my thigh in rhythm to dispel the nervous energy coursing through my veins. The adrenaline hasn't kicked in yet, so right now it's just apprehension. _When there’s nowhere else to run—_

 

Ryan lifts his head, his face expressionless. He’s already done his own makeup, and tonight it’s something low-key, dark shadows around his eyes, almost as though he’s trying to hide the lack of sleep from which we’ve all been suffering. I know people will eat it up, though. With him, they always do, and with reason. The mysterious, quiet lyricist pouring his heart out through someone else's voice intrigues everyone. I've never minded being his voice. 

 

_Is there room for one more son?_

 

I stand up and make my way towards him. 

 

_One more son._

 

That’s when I realise just how overcrowded this room is. Our tour manager’s wrestling with a huge pack of water, dancers are skipping around the room in their costumes, and someone is yelling about how they can’t find the spare guitar strings, but that’s not my problem anymore. Hey, we’re headlining for a reason. 

 

“Too many people,” I tell Ryan when I get to him, and lean against the wall. “Stresses me out.” The song’s clearly not helping, either. I’m supposed to remember words to our own songs, not to another band’s. Does that count as treason? 

 

“I’d offer you a beer if it wasn’t illegal,” Ryan smirks, tightening the scarf around his waist again. God, what’s his deal with that? Scarves and vests and things that look like berets. I think he likes the “student from les Mis” aesthetic, which would also make him dead. I really do prefer him alive. 

 

“I appreciate the sentiment, even if it’s useless.”

 

I smile and look at Jon in the mirror, on the other side of the room. He’s the one that wears the least stage makeup out of the four of us, so I don’t know what he’s still doing in that chair. The makeup girl’s probably flirting with him. I suddenly turn to Ryan. “Hey, will you do my makeup tonight?” 

 

He looks at me, slightly confused. “The puppet thing?” 

 

I nod. Yeah, the puppet thing. It started because of him, might as well have him do it, too. I don't really know where the inside joke came from, or who started it, but it definitely stuck around. When we were throwing ideas out for the tour, Spencer brought it back up, making Ryan flush a dark red, which made me immediately accept the idea. His voice, his puppet. Might as well go all the way. 

 

“It’s just, like, two lines, two red circles and— a bunch of smaller lines under my eyes,” I remind him, desperate not to have that strange makeup artist’s hands on me. I’m probably not giving her enough credit, but I’m just not feeling it tonight. 

 

He shrugs unenthusiastically. “Sure, why not.” 

 

“Thanks,” I mutter as I move away from him and towards the makeup station, where Jon is suffering through the powder, too, but I feel Ryan grab my arm. My head swivels towards him and I frown. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Too many people,” he says, echoing my words from earlier. “Feels weird to put makeup on you when there are professionals in the room,” he adds when he sees how unconvinced I am by the first part of his sentence. I follow his gaze and glance over my shoulder at the girl who’s still working on Jon’s face. Jesus, what is she doing? He doesn’t even need that many layers. Soon we’ll have a powdered donut instead of a bassist. 

 

“Fine, later then.” I tell him, and I think I finally have an idea that might get that earworm out of my head. “But then you owe me a dance. For making me wait.” 

 

I pull him into a strange ballroom dance position before he can answer and his eyes widen as I place both my hands on his shoulders. The Killers lyrics flood right back in, and I think I might fuck up a song or two tonight. 

 

“When there’s nowhere else to run,” I start loudly, and Ryan snorts before bowing his head and pressing his forehead against my shoulder in shame. I can’t help but grin. His gloved hands are on my waist, which would probably be quite indecorous if we lived in the nineteenth century, even for two guys. _Especially_ for two guys. 

 

But when he lifts his head again, he’s singing along with me, and we sway almost drunkenly across the room, carelessly bumping into people that do nothing more than glare at us, and I don’t really care. I found a way to be close to him, somehow. And it’s not stage antics. It’s real, it’s real and we’re singing a song from a band more famous than we are, with thousands of people waiting for us just one room away. They can wait. 

 

Some guy near the door holds a camera on his shoulder, instantly making me aware that this thing won’t just stay between us. Just for show, I grab Ryan’s hand in mine and hold them above our heads, forcing him to twirl. 

 

“I fucking hate you,” he laughs, falling back into my arms, and we keep yelling the lyrics until the entire room is converted and screams along to the song playing in my mind. Ryan’s close, his lips just a breath away, and yet they’re absurdly off limits. I rip my eyes from them as everyone around starts shouting the bridge, Spencer banging along to the rhythm on one of the tables. Jon’s finally free from the makeup chair. I smile. Tonight’s show’s gonna be good. Maybe I’ll even kiss him onstage tonight. Maybe. 

 

_Over and again, last call for sin_

_While everyone's lost, the battle is won_

_With all these things that I've done_

_All these things that I’ve done._


End file.
